


Josie's On A Vacation Far Away (Come Around And Talk It Over)

by softer_softest



Category: Green Day
Genre: Christmas fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mention of Animal Death, Romantic Fluff, Santa hats, Uh??, a MISTLETOE - Freeform, billie/mike - Freeform, green day rpf - Freeform, if you're immune to a doggo dying pls carry on, it's just mentioned but..... be cautious, ugly coats, unfunny jokes (validate me)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-27 13:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17162717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softer_softest/pseuds/softer_softest
Summary: The sky reflects on the green of his eyes in a mixture of lilac, blue, and orange as he overlooks the horizon, the snow underneath his feet long turned mushier, molten. And there, in the warm comfort of Mike’s arms and a flooding, wholesome sensation in his gut, Billie decides that Mondays can be as good as Sundays - with the right company.or, billie's going through a rough patch on christmas eve, and mike's always been good at being a distraction.





	Josie's On A Vacation Far Away (Come Around And Talk It Over)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a lil late christmas thing... but it's still christmas break so i'm allowed to put it out. i was literally doomed idea wise but i Needed to write something so just be warned that this is really Really useless and short and i'm a bit unhappy with the length but it's all i have. as per usual i do not own green day and i'm not claiming any of this happened.

Every Sunday evening, Billie finds himself sat in the same ancient wooden bench, located in the same old park, with the same person, and the same bubbly sensation setting deep down in the pit of his stomach.

There is a considerable amount of things wrong with this equation right now. First and foremost, Billie’s pretty sure today is Monday - and by pretty sure it’s conveyed that there is no doubt in his mind today is indeed the 24th of December, commonly known as the day before the most important day of Billie's past childhood, but he pretends there is for the sake of being cool and what not - and if that wasn’t enough to ruin his ideal of a pleasant Christmas Eve, he’s additionally standing all alone, with five inches of snow being enough to soak through his sad excuses of boots and have his feet feeling all cold and pulpy. To comment on the lack of the warmth in his stomach would be in vain - though he supposes that the freezing cold breeze and wet eyes are worth mentioning.

Taking a moment to observe anything that could distract him from the sorrow set deep in his gut, Billie focuses on the slight sway of the trees far in the horizon, and the soft lilac-blue of the sky. It’s all too calm and peaceful to help him remain his cool, and he huffs as another round of excess tears start clogging his throat.

“Fuck’s sake…” he murmurs to himself. Wiping off the moisture from the corner of his eyes, he briefly thinks that he’s been feeling the same lump in his throat either shrinking or sizing up for the past half hour or so, and frustratingly starts tapping his fingers against his own cheek, rhythmically.

There’s a bright red spot in the distance. Billie sniffs to himself in confusion, wiping his eyes gently and trying to focus on the rapidly approaching object. He jadedly recognizes it as being a God-awful Santa hat, which is enough in on itself to identify the owner, and promptly ducks down to half-heartedly collect some snow. Ignoring the chilly burn of his fingers, Billie forms the snowball and waits.

“Wow,” he hears, followed by a little sniff, “you weren’t kidding.”

Billie ends up throwing the snowball at his direction, not even lifting his head, but silently smiling to himself at the sound of snow colliding with fabric and an over-exaggerated exclaim of pain. “Yeah, well…” he mumbles aimlessly, clicking his tongue in annoyance at how shaky his voice sounds.

“Must be serious,” Mike observes, starting to move closer, finally. He examines Billie’s slumped shoulders and his frizzy curls - all beautifully complemented by the bold choice of a hot pink coat. He tuts, “I’m guessing it’s the fact that you accidentally picked up Anna’s coat on your way out.”

Billie manages a confused glance up, and then a slow look over at his pink-mess-clad torso. “Oh,” he pinches the fabric as if to make a point. “Didn’t even notice.”

“Suits you,” Mike says matter-of-factly, walking over to the back of the bench leisurely, leaning over Billie’s slumped form. “You’ve always looked kind of girly.” He pauses, waiting for a snort. It never comes. “Alright, well, if it’s not the coat… Ugh, did your mom get you socks or something? You know, opening presents early sucks. You had it coming.”

“It’s not… _that,”_ Billie cuts in, finally letting out one of his precious giggles. He steps on one foot with the other tensely, then looks up at Mike, pointedly staring at his hat, “You look like a clown.”

“Oh, Bill, always the jokester,” Mike grins, but ends up sliding the hat off anyway with a gloved hand. “My little cousins are over, remember? I was putting on a damn fantastic show before you had to call and ruin it.”

“They’re fucking bored of you, anyway,” Billie snatches the hat out of Mike’s grasp, sniffing softly. “You do that every bleeding year and they have to pretend they like it over and over. They need a break,” he says, absentmindedly putting the hat on his own head. “Besides, I’m pretty sure they’re getting a bit too old to still believe in Santa Claus.”

“Man, wouldn’t it be nice if they kept on believing until they were, like, _fifteen_ _years old_ or something?” Mike unambiguously brings his face closer, pretending to be skeptical. “Just like a buddy of mine did.”

 _“Fourteen,”_ Billie grumbles, throwing the ugly hat back in Mike’s face. “And I ain’t no buddy of yours.”

“Ditto.”

Mike remains lent over him still, whereas Billie goes back to staring at his hands, painfully silent. It’s enough to alarm Mike just a little bit, which reminds him that he’s still here because Billie has an apparent problem. Whether it’s as ridiculous as it usually is, he doesn’t know, but it’s worth finding out.

He throws his legs over the bench as he sits on the back of it, his feet planted right next to Billie’s thighs, hunching over slightly so they can be on somewhat eye level.

“You wanna tell me?”

Billie finally seems to become less tense - which means he merely rests against the back of the bench, stretching his neck so he can look up at the sky. Mike’s allowed a nice view of his eyes this way, the slightest bit of puffy, wet and green. The little bleached-blond curl that always manages to stick out does its magic once again, sitting high and mighty and shiny right in the middle of his forehead, but Mike holds himself from brushing it back - not until Billie decides to finally speak.

“Uh…” Billie sniffs, ever so intelligent, rolling his shoulders around miserably. He doesn’t dare look anywhere but the sky above, his eyes alternating focusing on one cloud over another. “It’s-” he almost chokes on the ever so bothersome lump in his throat, then determinedly swallows it down and speaks louder. “Josie passed on Saturday.”

Mike stares at him. He doesn’t know exactly how long he’s sat there, blankly staring, but it must be enough for his eyes to turn dry, burning from lack of blinking. He silently looks forward and bunches his hat up in a messy ball of fabric, sliding down until he’s perched right next to Billie, making sure to keep some space between them. Billie chuckles quietly to himself - a sad, nervous chuckle that does so well on reflecting his disdain of silence, both comfortable and uncomfortable. Well, sometimes silence is important - but Mike refrains from telling him that.

What he does instead is to sit. Reflecting on the sad news must be ten times easier for him than it must have been for Billie, he thinks, so he stares at the ugly red hat in his hands and contemplates the information he’s been given. He thinks about how Billie’s had Josie since he was only four years old - which adds up to almost thirteen years now, an astounding number of years to go over. He thinks about how no matter how annoyed or sad he was, or anything bad that Billie didn’t deserve happened to him, taking Josie out for a walk or plainly talking to her almost always managed to cheer him up in one way or another. Mike has always mocked him about talking to Josie as if she understands him or has the ability to respond to him, but Billie always insisted that she did when he was younger - but the older version of Billie just brushed it off and continued to speak to her as if she was his best friend.

“We buried her, um…” Billie continues, for the sake of breaking the suffocating silence, “in the backyard. Well, I wasn’t even there when they did that,” he jokes glumly. Mike’s not sure if joking was Billie’s intention, anyway. “And we- _they_ put her toy in, as well. You know the one with the little bell that drove mom insane?”

“Yeah. I got her that one,” Mike says, his throat restricted. “For your birthday, remember?”

“Yeah. That’s- um. That _was_ her favorite,” Billie unclenches his thighs at last, and swings his legs high up, rubbing his own forearm gently. He starts laughing then, lightly, reminiscent. “I know I joked about that a lot, but she actually loved you. Like… she’d start squealing whenever you stepped foot in the house.”

“She loved you the most, though,” Mike assures, deciding to slide a little bit closer to him, share his warmth.

Billie sniffs, automatically snuggling up against his side, while Mike deems it comfortable enough to abandon the hat and sling an arm around both of his shoulders. He’s not wrong. “Well, _duh_ \- don’t get cocky, now,” Billie mocks, pulling a genuine laugh out of Mike. “I’m just _saying…_ I think she would have wanted me to tell you that… As weird as it sounds.”

“Why would it sound weird? I’m lovable. _Not_ loving me would be weird.”

“See, that’s the shit…” Billie huffs, making to push Mike’s arm off of him, only succeeding in making him cling closer, laughing right in his ear. “I can’t even be nice without encouraging you to act like a mega-douche.”

Instead of replying, Mike delivers an over-the-top kiss on Billie’s cheek, which he surprisingly doesn’t pull away from. It reminds him to smooth back that stray curl he was thinking of earlier, and when he does, Billie practically starts purring, leading to numerous more head strokes - because Mike’s a nice person first, and a whipped mess of a boy second. Or so he says, over and over and over again.

Billie sighs once the grooming stops, looking Mike right in the eye. “Hey. I feel a bit better now.”

“That’s the Mike effect.”

Huffing in exasperation, Billie ducks down and wraps his arms around Mike’s torso in an unusual attempt to shut him up, nuzzling his head against his chest, as some form of resignation. “Shut the fuck up, man,” he laments, adorably muffled against Mike’s thick coat.

Mike does, indeed, and runs a single hand down Billie’s back, permanently hunched over. He taps his fingers along the expanse of his spine a couple of times, pulling him closer, thoughtful. “I’ll miss Josie,” he whispers. Billie’s eyes flash up, questioningly. “You know she was, like… forty percent the reason I came over most of the time.”

“Not offended,” Billie says genuinely, blinking twice. “Understandable.”

“Well, I was sort of implying _you_ were sixty percent, but, you know…”

“Please,” Billie snorts, even as his cheek turn the faintest shade of red. “My mom’s cooking is at least twenty percent or something.”

Mike’s eyes glaze over as he attempts to do the math in his head, finding it hard to with Billie’s silent laughter echoing through his ribcage. He shakes his head dismissively, “You ain’t smarter than me.”

“Right,” Billie sings, nudging his cheek in Mike’s chest one last time before he sits up straight again, mostly, his back popping pleasantly. He contemplates something for a minute, and then Mike’s being kissed, shyly. “Thanks.”

Mike bites the inside of his cheek, trying to contain his overflow of excitement, “For what exactly?”

“For being a natural clown, I guess…” Billie begins, pausing to giggle at Mike’s tut. “And for distracting me from… Josie. I know I’m being stupid, I’ll probably get over it in a week or so.”

“You’re not- Hey,” Mike says firmly, placing a gentle hand on Billie’s shoulder, who’s taken on looking at the sky once again. “If I’m getting so affected by this, then so should you. You’ve been together for more than a decade, Bill, come on. She was your best friend - you deserve some time to be sad about it.”

Billie looks pensive as he observes a cloud in the sky - or whatever he’s looking at or thinking of, for that matter - and then his face suddenly morphs into a little smile, so small it looks like it was originally supposed to be smothered down. He ducks his head as Mike chuckles a breath out of his nose.

“What? What are you smiling for?”

Billie shakes his head, in a bit of a daze, “I guess I’m just uncomfortable,” he shrugs his shoulders, then continues, quieter. “I also didn’t know I was dating a counselor.”

“Wow,” Mike proclaims, incredulously. “Well, you’re welcome, I guess. I’ll just shut up. Wouldn’t want you to be even _more_ uncomfortable, you ungrateful cocknose.”

They’re engulfed by silence for all about five seconds, until they both burst out in uncontrollable laughter, getting even warmer and closer to each other as a result. Billie starts biting on his finger idly in a poor attempt to reduce his laughter, while Mike wraps his arms around him, laughing right into his hair. It’s a decent enough moment, Billie thinks. Little bursts of giggles escape from his throat involuntarily, still, and get lost onto Mike’s mouth as they attempt to give a sad excuse of a kiss.

“Cocknose…” Billie recalls, giggling right on the side of Mike’s mouth, arms grabbing both of his forearms for leverage. Mike nods in agreement, pinching his lower back.

“There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Billie wipes the moisture from his eyes gently, grateful that they’re the result of laughter - and then thinking that there wasn’t any other possibility even in his current situation, as long as Mike’s around. He sniffs softly, “Cumdumpster.”

“Woah, coming from the biggest slut I know!” Mike exclaims, chortling silently as Billie positively guffaws. “It’s an honor. Fucking thundercunt.” He pauses, his lap full of a hysterical boy, “That’s the last one, by the way.”

“Hey!” Billie demands, as firmly as he can manage through his bubbling giggles. “I wanna have the last word!”

“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” Mike snips in faux bitterness, contemplating his options. “Alright, just one more.”

“Oh, man, that’s a lot of pressure,” Billie murmurs to himself, still not managing to calm the little outbursts of pure joy. He rests his head on Mike’s shoulder as he goes over the cards he’s willing to play in his head, and Mike’s more than welcome to let him, even though he’s absolutely positive he’ll regret it later. Billie’s face lights up, at last, “Shitlicker.”

“Ugh, _Billie!”_ Mike shouts in sheer agony, making sure to hit him upright the head - all the while Billie’s positively choking on his own laughter. “Fuck- I really hope you made that one up. Actually, nevermind. That’s too fucking scary for me.”

“Hey, some people like to do it! Maybe _you_ do and you don’t know it yet,” Billie doesn’t hesitate to press on, ignoring the blows Mike delivers against his back, until they become too prominent. “There’s plenty of time to exper- _Ow!_ You’re getting too defensive to brush off, man!”

“You know, if your goal’s never to have sex again, then you fucking did it,” Mike all but gags, softening the slightest bit as he comes to feel Billie’s soft laughter vibrating against his chest. He pauses to feel the greasy curls tickle his jaw, then sighs gently. There’s a pleasant breeze hitting the side of his face, and something tells him it wouldn’t be as pleasant if Billie wasn’t here to share his warmth with him, or make him feel so zestful and calm. Still, “Fucking abomination.”

Mike’s pulled out of his daze by a cold hand lying on the side of his neck, and he glances down, where Billie’s already looking calmly up at him, through dewy and sleepy eyelids. The hairs on his neck stand up involuntarily.

“Your hand’s freezing,” he observes, at which Billie minimally shrugs a shoulder, not moving his gaze. “Want my gloves?”

“Nah, that’s alright,” Billie says, removing his hands from Mike in favor of putting them in Mike’s coat pockets instead. He shrugs at Mike’s lift of the eyebrows, “Fucking Hollie’s coat has no pockets. I don’t think she even wears this anymore.”

Mike chuckles to himself, all the while Billie tries to sneak his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to get them warmer. He focuses on Billie’s wet eyelashes, and the way he kicks the snow away from underneath his boots, which look too soggy for his liking; up until a quiet hiss grasps his attention.

“What is it?” Mike asks listlessly, because he’s pretty sure it’s something insignificant, probably. He waits until Billie stops looking at his pockets accusingly, with his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“What’s this?” he, too, murmurs distractedly, his hand wiggling about in the confines of Mike’s pocket. In a flash, Mike remembers the little plastic ornament he’d hastily shoved into his pocket earlier, upon Billie calling him in the middle of a game with his younger cousins. He laughs to himself, putting his hand over his pocket softly as Billie looks at him in question.

“Just leave it there,” he pleads, which is probably the worst thing he could do. Billie’s eyes shine with mirth, and, ignoring Mike’s plea, he grabs the poky object and snatches it out, his face stretching painfully with a smile. “Bill…”

“Out of all things,” Billie retorts, holding up the plastic mistletoe in a reasonable distance from their heads. “What were your intentions, Mike Pritchard?”

“Shut up,” Mike shakes his head in embarrassment as he tries to snatch it back, finding it extremely difficult to when Billie’s constantly putting it out of reach. Eventually, he gives up and lets Billie examine it in his stone cold palm. _“Please,_ don’t be a dick about this,” he begs, the statement sounding suspiciously close to a question. “I forgot I even had it in there.”

“Oh, so it wasn’t for me. I see,” Billie nods in a faux ticked-off manner, tutting as Mike finally gives in and shoves him away by the shoulder. Like a magnet, though, Mike’s the one to come closer again, with the horrible disguise of wanting to snatch the offending plastic ornament back. “No, no, hold on.”

“Alright, if you _need_ to know,” Mike sighs in defeat. He slumps against the back of the bench ruefully, “I didn’t want you to find out like this, but… I wasn’t _really_ at home when you called. I was at Rod’s with your mom, about to pull this baby out. And now someone from the Armstrong family has to take one for the team and give me my postponed kiss.”

Billie’s frozen for all about two seconds before he breathes out a relieved sigh and promptly kicks Mike in the shin. “Ass. Don’t you worry about your fucking kiss, man, I think I can talk Al into giving you a little smooch or something. Are you up for that?”

“I’m _up_ for that in all senses of the word,” Mike slaps his own thigh as if to prove a point, which earns him another hit, in the forearm this time. “Stop hitting me! I’m getting that kiss.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

Mike nods in agreement, then manages to steal the mistletoe right out of Billie’s grip. He smiles cheekily, then proceeds to lift it over both of their heads. His eyes shine with triumph as Billie all but spits in the ornament’s direction, “It’s a mistletoe, Bill. There’s no way out of this.”

“I am the _last_ Armstrong you’d ever get a kiss from,” Billie states as a matter-of-fact, huffing at Mike’s mocking snort. “From now on.”

“Well, luckily, there’s a lot of you,” Mike warns, ducking so that he’s eye level with Billie Joe, all lovely smiles and crooked teeth. There was something else he wanted to add, but now it seems to have evaporated into thin air at the sight of such a sweet grin. He gulps it down, instead, and remembers to shimmy the mistletoe above their heads, causing the tiny bell on it to echo. “A little one? You can’t go against tradition.”

“Never pegged you for the traditional type,” Billie retorts snarkily, falling silent. He fixes Mike with a look that he hopes conveys the message he’s trying to get across - meaning: _‘I’m not buying your shit for one second’_ \- but a little smile makes its way onto his face anyway. In one quick motion, he manages to snatch back the mistletoe, away from Mike’s grabby hands, and indeed kiss him before he can react. He could say it’s the first proper kiss of the day, one that lasts more than a second and isn’t smothered down by laughs and giggles, though it comes close.

“Give that back,” Mike mutters bashfully, grabbing the mistletoe and finally managing to shove it back into his pocket. Billie chuckles to himself as Mike’s knee starts to get all bouncy, a sign of his restlessness, or sudden timidness.

“Where’s your hat?” he asks, all smiley and charming. Mike huffs out of embarrassment, but lifts his body off the bench anyway, presenting Billie the ugly red hat that he was previously sitting on. He takes it gently, in sharp contrast of his dealing with the mistletoe earlier, and wears it on his head again. Mike doesn’t try to pull it off of him this time around, and just admires the way the rich red of the fabric compliments the shiny green of Billie’s eyes.

He smiles to himself, and Billie smiles at his hands. “Will I see you tomorrow?” Mike drops all of a sudden, one hand preparing to pull one glove off, leisurely.

Billie doesn’t look up as he replies, “Don’t think so. I don’t even know how many people are coming over… Unless you sneak in later,” he shrugs lazily, his eyes following the motions of Mike’s hands, “We can go over my presents together.”

“Yeah. I could come over later,” Mike agrees, and deems it the end of that conversation as he pulls off his second glove and presents them both to Billie. “Here you go.”

Billie accepts them wordlessly, hurriedly putting them on his burning hands. He all but melts once they’re covered. “Thanks,” he says, then promptly snuggles close to Mike for the hundredth time in under an hour, going as far as to put a leg over his own. Mike pokes it in question. “Tired,” Billie answers simply, and Mike lets it slide.

They let the calm silence linger around them for a while, nevermind the little cotton ball of the Santa hat hitting Mike’s cheek whenever there’s a mild breeze, and Billie focuses on the steady thump of Mike’s heart against his chest.

“Mike?” he says noiselessly.

Mike hums in acknowledgment, realizing for the first time just how close he was to falling in a peaceful slumber, with Billie lying tranquil in his arms. He starts twirling a little curl of Billie’s, poking out of the hat, in order to distract himself.

“You think I took good care of Josie?”

“Yeah, Bill,” Mike whispers, softly against his temple. “I don’t think she had anything to complain about. Don’t stress over that; you know you loved her.”

“I do love her,” Billie agrees inaudibly, held tightly against Mike’s brittle form.

The sky reflects on the green of his eyes in a mixture of lilac, blue, and orange as he overlooks the horizon, the snow underneath his feet long turned mushier, molten. And there, in the warm comfort of Mike’s arms and a flooding, wholesome sensation in his gut, Billie decides that Mondays can be as good as Sundays - with the right company.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
